


Chastes sur la terre, mais s'accouplant dans l'infini.

by cami_case



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, in which grantaire is a mess, raise your hand if you're surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cami_case/pseuds/cami_case
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apollo turned Eros under Grantaire's touch, and he cannot breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chastes sur la terre, mais s'accouplant dans l'infini.

Grantaire cannot breathe.

Waves are crashing all around him, and the weight of _everything_ is crushing his chest. He is Atlas, and he is Prometheus. He can feel the heaviness of the skies falling apart on his shoulders, and he can feel his liver being ripped off inch by inch, as seconds go by.

He can feel the light touch of the blond curls against his neck as Enjolras’ steady breath crawls into his ears. And Grantaire cannot breathe. He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t even give a hint of a motion to look at the man by his side. He can see him in the corner of his eyes. And that’s way past enough for him.

He cannot see anything else, and there is nothing else he can see. Enjolras is laying on his back, and he cannot see anything else. He only sees Enjolras. Disheveled Enjolras, boneless Enjolras, exhausted Enjolras. And Grantaire’s sheets don’t cover much of his body anymore. Bruised Enjolras, bluish stains where his grip tightened, crimson blooming where his mouth lingered. Depraved Enjolras. The memories strike him down again, flashing under his eyelids. Wordless Enjolras, cheeks flushed and straddling Grantaire. Babbling Enjolras, words and filth flowing between his bloody lips, head thrown back and neck exposed. Angelic Enjolras, perverted by Grantaire’s presence, and Apollo turned Eros under his touch. There is nothing else he can see. His stomach twists, and he cannot breathe.

Oh god, he needs air. He needs to get out of here before he suffocates. It’s chaos all around him, he stumbles out of the bed, and fits into the mess. He picks up some jeans and a shirt before hurrying out of his apartment. He wanders, a bottle he doesn’t remember getting in his hand, and almost wishes the bad wine could turn into acrylic. He wanders, and wonders if acrylic could wipe out his thoughts. He wanders, and wishes he had bleach. His pace doesn’t lead him anywhere, but then again, has anything ever did? Grantaire cannot breathe, but he goes through a whole pack of cigarettes, that night.

After that, nobody hears anything from him, for everything becomes his very own downfall. Enjolras shrugs at their questions and mumbles that midterms are a tough period for everybody; and all they can do is exchange curious glances at each other. But Enjolras woke up alone, that night, and there’s a frown between his brows that hasn’t left him ever since, as he tried to convince himself of his words, and then shrugged his concerns away. He’ll come back, doesn’t he always? Once every other bar in Paris will have thrown him out, he’ll have to come back, eventually. And Enjolras still tries to convince himself, and the frown deepens.

It’s all very Basil Hallward, back in Grantaire’s apartment. Minus the feathery atmosphere, the light bliss and the presence of his muse. But plus the self-hatred, and the drinking fading into the hangover without anybody able to say where one starts and the other ends. And he gives birth to his own Antinoüs farouche under his paintbrush. If he’s far enough from reality (and sobriety), he could swear he can still see Apollo’s feathers. Until he remembers the sweat and the heavy breaths, and shame crushes him again. He paints a harsh kind of heaven, and an ethereal kind of hell. He can smell the oil on the canvas, all gold and blood, Achilles and Alexander, and fuck if he could inhale him instead.

It’s only a month later when Grantaire finally gets out of his smoke-filled and self-pitied cocoon. He has never felt so exposed and powerless, every step is worse than the last, and guilt still bleeds into his bones. The trees on the sidewalks seem downright sketched with red chalk, and gold sparkles among the jade of the leaves. The air is heavy, and Grantaire cannot breathe. But not all those wander are lost, and Grantaire's pace leads him right to the Musain's door. He doesn’t enter, though. He leans against the wall, trying to substitute the missing air with tobacco. Inky curls fall, hiding his eyes, he doesn’t brush them off. The smoke is pouring out from between his teeth, and all he can see is the echo of the sighs trickling out of Enjolras’ lips. He closes his eyes again, he should have stayed home. Maybe tonight he’ll sleep in his bed. Maybe tonight the scent will be gone, covered by paint and cigarettes. But he doesn’t want to find out, so he won’t.

And suddenly, the door slams open, and Grantaire jolts back in surprise. He promptly drops his cigarette and doesn’t even have the time to acknowledge what is going on, nor ask Combeferre what he’s doing before he’s being dragged by the arm into the Café. He hears the thunder of his heart, drumming hard into his ears, he wants to shout; _no!_ And he cannot breathe. But there’s a hand on his mouth, and the very next thing he knows is that he’s in Combeferre’s embrace, both hiding behind a pillar. He tries to nudge his way out but then Combeferre is glaring at him, and he can only huff in annoyance.

Grantaire can hear _his_ voice, now. It smears against his lungs, swallowing everything else until there’s nothing left. It’s a touch against his jaw, heavenly and callous, harsh and soft, almost vaporous, almost sharp. The words are bleeding, dribbling drops of sublime on Grantaire’s skin, where goosebumps are already rising. The arms around him have loosened, now, but he hasn’t noticed as he’s being drawn by the voice. Disheveled Enjolras, boneless Enjolras, exhausted Enjolras, bruised Enjolras, depraved Enjolras, and wordless Enjolras. That’s when Grantaire looks up. If he could breathe, he would have stopped. Standing on the table, golden curls down and glowing, Enjolras is there, inflamed in his own speech. Resplendent Enjolras, beaming Enjolras, striking Enjolras, fearless Enjolras. Divine Enjolras. There is a pastel cloud veiling R’s heart, slowly roaring, and Enjolras’ voice follows its waves. His stomach twists, and he doesn’t feel sick anymore. There is no one else behind him anymore, and he doesn’t notice. He stole the fire, he holds on the skies, he is Prometheus, and he is Atlas. Suddenly, Grantaire breathes in.


End file.
